


Give me love, I'll put my heart in it

by queenofchildren



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Jaime survives and goes to Tarth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: Despite Bran's words, there is an afterwards: Afterwards, Jaime goes to Tarth and corrects his latest mistake. He tries some courting, does some sparring, and nearly misses dinner with Brienne's father.(aka, what if things played out differently and Jaime and Brienne got the over-the-top happy reunion they deserve?)





	Give me love, I'll put my heart in it

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Brienne x Jaime fic, because I recently got re-obsessed with them and then... the show happened and then I needed to write. I've only written for one other ship those past two years, so I definitely haven't found a grasp on those two characters yet, but I hope some of it makes sense at least. As for my changes to the show canon, please don't look into them too much.  
> Title is from Dermot Kennedy's "An evening I will not forget".

There is an afterwards.

Afterwards, magic is gone from Westeros again. The Night King is defeated, his wights burned to ashes. The dragons are dead, snatched out of the sky by spears and arrows no thicker than their bones. The Red Priestess and Lord Beric are gone, and with them the last devotees of the Lord of Light.

But instead of magic, they have peace now.

They have an afterwards, despite Bran's ominous words, and Jaime spends it in the only way that makes sense: He sails to Tarth, to properly visit it for the first time. He's sailed past it before, admiring its sapphire waters and lush green hills from afar and thinking fondly of the only person he knows who grew up there, but he's never actually set foot on the island.

It's small, not as fertile as the green would suggest, and blessedly quiet.

The air is crisp and salty and cleaner than any he has ever breathed – a balm to his lungs, which still feel like they're coated in the ash and dust of King's Landing even after months of brisk Northern air.

The waters are calm, stirred only by the prows of passing ships – fishermen's dingies and merchant ships, not the fearsome warships of the Iron Fleet. When he closes his eyes, he can still see them before him, chopping the waters of Blackwater Bay so much that for a moment he thought the boat carrying Cersei and Euron to safety would capsize. But they made it to his ship, the biggest and ugliest of the lot – just as a jet of dragonfire hit it from above and it burst apart, the bay ringing with the sound of splintering wood and howling men and that unearthly rumble from the dragon's throat.

Jaime had been unable to do anything but watch – and, oddly, he had not felt guilt at abandoning his sister in her death: He had felt relief.

The entire ride southwards, he had not known what, exactly, he was riding South for – had it been to save Cersei? Die with her? Kill her?

The first had felt surreal, like something his past self would have wanted – the man who had hungered forever after the scraps of love Cersei would deign to throw him, not the man who had spent the past weeks helping to rebuild Winterfell by day and crawling into bed beside Brienne by night, her body strong and warm against his, her eyes full of something he knew he did not deserve and yet craved all the same.

To die with his hateful sister would have been what he deserved, but it had not been his lot after all – she almost had not seen him in her rush to safety, and had only stopped when he had called out, already by the water's edge with Euron reaching out to help her into the boat. The Mountain had stopped him from fully approaching, and had only let him through after a slight nod from his Queen.

“Why are you here?”, she had asked imperiously, every inch the haughty golden Queen he remembered.

“The child...” he had croaked out, unable to figure out what else to say, and beside Cersei, Euron had laughed.

Cersei had not – she had studied him for a moment, a softness on her face that he had rarely seen there before. It used to stoke hope in him, hope for that ever-elusive “something more” she never wanted to give. In that moment, it held only sadness.

“It's not yours. There was no child when you left.”

And with that, she had turned and climbed into the boat without a goodbye, and Jaime had watched after her, grieving yet another child that had never really been his. But even as he did, he felt a sense of calm come over him, a sense of freedom, and he wondered if perhaps some part of Cersei did love him after all. Her words had been cruel, and the lie behind them crueller still – but they had set him free. For the first time in his life, he was free of her.

Then the fire engulfed Euron's ship and Jaime cried as he watched it go down.

Now, months later and miles away, his ship has reached the harbour at Tarth, bumping gently against the pier, and Jaime grabs his light satchel and walks off the ship, curiously looking around, taking stock of the island and its people. Good, honest, hardworking people; weatherworn and cheerful. He sees a lot of Brienne in them – the resilience, optimism and determination needed to carve a life out of this tiny little island so far from the mainland are the same traits that led her all the way to becoming the first female knight, he thinks, and the thought makes him greet everyone he passes with sudden fondness.

This is a good place, he decides. The sort of place a man might grow old in.

 

***

 

Lord Selwyn is a pleasant man – frail now, but in a way that suggests he was a formidable man once. He greets Jaime with friendly chitchat and even has a smile for him, a strange experience: Not a lot of people smile at Jaime, at least not without some hidden motive – there used to be greed and ambition hidden behind even the brightest of smiles, back when he was a golden lion, and pity now that he's a greying cripple.

And of all of them, Lord Selwyn would have good reasons not to smile either, after the way he's treated his daughter. But when the Lord of Evenfall Hall brings up the daughter in question, it is without reproach.

“I assume you are here to speak to Brienne.”

He says the name with the exact type of reverence with which it is supposed to be said, which Jaime finds immensely reassuring.

“With your permission, I would.”

That makes the old man chuckle.

“I think you know as well as I that my daughter has no need of my permission to speak to anyone, or do whatever else it pleases her to do. It is her you must convince that your intentions are honourable.”

A pause, a measuring glance that tells Jaime that the man may be old but he is not weak, at least not in spirit.

“I come to ask for Lady Brienne's hand,” Jaime blurts out, too impatient to mince words. Then, because he has learned that there's no point in lying to people smarter than him or in trying to keep things from them, he adds: “Although first I owe her an apology. We did not part on the best of terms, and it is entirely my fault. This may be the first and the last time the two of us ever meet.”

Lord Selwyn acknowledges his words with a nod and a pensive expression.

“In that case, it has been a pleasure to meet you.” Another brief pause, a flash of melancholy, before the old man's wrinkled face smoothes over. “She's in the garden. She likes to practice on the Eastern terraces; they're nice and shady in the afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

A nod, then a quick bow for good measure – he never did learn how to go about courting someone, but Jaime assumes showing some politeness to their beloved father is a good approach.

Still, his patience for politeness has all but run out, and the bow is followed by an exit so quick it could be misconstrued as flight.

***

 

When he first sees her, pale hair gleaming in the late-morning sunshine, he feels like he can't breathe; like there's an iron band around his chest – or perhaps it's been there all along, and he is only noticing it now.

It has been _so long_.

The last time he's seen her was from just as far away, across the ravaged courtyard of the Red Keep, where she was never supposed to be. The air was so full of ashes then that even her fair head had been blackened with it, the nce ornate courtyard strewn with corpses. He started to make his way towards her, only to be stopped by the nearby crash of debris falling from one of the ruined towers and blocking his way.

By the time the dust cleared, she was nowhere to be seen.

He asked for her, at the Starks' victory feast (and what a strange twist of fate that he should be celebrating with that family of all people), only to find not a single person who was able – or willing – to tell him her whereabouts. The information was withheld at Lady Sansa's orders, he finally pressed out of a trembling squire, but the trick could not be repeated with the Lady of Winterfell herself: The information of where Ser Brienne had fled to had become Winterfell's new best-kept secret.

It took a long explanation and weeks of faithful service to her and her family until he finally earned enough of her trust to be told.

“Tarth,” Lady Sansa finally said, one quiet afternoon after emerging from the Godswood at Winterfell to find him waiting for her outside the gates, shivering through an unusually cold, misty day. It took him a moment to understand what she was alluding to. “She was injured on the retreat from King's Landing. She wanted to be brought to her home to recuperate. Apparently, her father is not in the best of health, and there was some concern she would not see him again otherwise.”

“Why are you telling me this?”, Jaime asked, too shocked at this suden turn of events to really believe his ears. “Why now?”

“Because I have faith that you have learned the cost and value of rectifying one's mistakes. Because you've served me faithfully. And because you still flinch when anyone mentions her name.”

She relieved him of his duty that very afternoon to go South, and now here he is, on a terrace overlooking the sapphire waters of Tarth.

The terrace has a view to rival any in Casterly Rock, but he only has eyes for the woman standing at the far edge of the terrace, a more imposing sight than even the dramatic drop of cliffs and the endless expanse of ocean behind her but a perfect complement to her surroundings, clad in the dark blue of her house that suits her best.

She has not noticed his arrival yet, too immersed in her training, and he remains in the shade of an awning for a moment to watch her go through her paces, twirling and twisting and blocking unseen attacks. Her movements are fluid, graceful, and he wonders how people could have ever called her anything but beautiful. Have they not seen her fight?

Well, most people have not, he wagers, and chuckles to himself.

The sound must carry, for she stills in her movements and turns her head, squinting into the shade, and Jaime steps out before she can suspect him of trying to be underhanded.

“Care for a sparring-partner, good Ser?”

The Jaime of old would have said it mockingly, with a sneer to indicate how ridiculous he found the proposition. (And yet, how utterly appealing.) The Brienne of old would have refused primly and then, when he'd inevitably keep goading her with crueller and crueller taunts, would have given in and beaten him soundly.

The Brienne of now only stands, sword hanging limply by her side, and stares at him, a thousand different emotions flickering across her face.

He wonders, briefly, if he broke her; hurt her beyond repair. Then he scoffs at his own hybris: As if a man like him could ever break a woman like her – as if anyone could.

"Ser Jaime," she finally says, back stiff and voice hollow, and he hates it. Then, seemingly shaking herself out of her stupor: "What are you doing here?"

Now would be the time to tell her what he told her father, and then a little more: That he's here to ask for her hand. That the thought of her, safe and far away from harm, was the only thing that kept him from going mad when he returned to King's Landing to throw himself at Cersei's feet, or drive a sword into her back, whatever option the Gods chose. That he missed her every second he was awake, and dreamed of her every night when he was asleep. That all he wants out of life, at this point, is another chance to be with her.

"I owe you an apology."

Again, silence. He will have to fight for this as hard as he had to fight for everything else, recently.

He welcomes the thought - he doesn't deserve easy.

"The way I left you was shameful. I had to leave, I was sure of that. But the way I did it... you did not deserve that."

She's still silent, but she's setting down the sword and walking closer, and he chooses to take it as a good sign.

"I made it seem like I was going back to be with Cersei, like I wanted to be with her rather than with you. But I never wanted that. I simply could not see any other place for me. After everything I had done - how could I deserve to be with someone like you? To be happy?" He takes a shuddering breath, realising only now how hard it was to return to that night, to the craven decision to leave her behind in the courtyard of Winterfell. "I thought the only thing left for me to do was kill her myself, put an end to it and most likely die in the attempt.”

“So you left.”

Jaime nods, holds her eyes as he confirms this most recent shameful act.

“I left. And I should have told you why."

“You should have. Why...” she breaks off, but the way her voice cracks tells him how the sentence might have ended: Why did he not tell her, then? Why make her suffer like this? Why make her think he betrayed her, after she put so much trust in him?

“Because you might have wanted to come along. And if Cersei had seen you, or even had word of you approaching...,” he swallows, the mere thought making his throat feel tight. “She would have had you killed on sight.”

“I'm not as defenseless as you seem to think I am.”

Even after everything she's done, people still underestimate Cersei, it seems.

“No, you're not defenseless. But faced with Cersei's wrath, no sword and armour are enough to protect you. She would have hunted you down until the ends of the earth.”

“Why?”

“You _know_ why.” He's being a coward again, he knows, and she does too, if her face is any indication.

But she remains silent, with a stubbornness she deserves. And she deserves more: She deserves to be told without having to beg for it.

“Because _I love you_ , that's why!”

As far as confessions of the heart go, that was not ideal, he knows – even a woman as unusual as Brienne can't dream of having a man yell his feelings in her face. But it can't be helped now - he has to tell her. He has to make her believe it.

“I love you more than I've ever loved her. She would have seen it with one glance. And she would have killed you for it.”

She's still not saying anything. But her face has softened, almost imperceptibly, and his heart jumps with hope at the sight. Maybe not all is lost. Maybe for once, he gets to make up for a mistake he made.

He steps closer, waiting for a breathless moment for her to step away.

She doesn't.

When he lifts his hand to cup her cheek, she still remains in place, even if her eyes are wide as a fearful doe's. She's scared, he realizes, scared that he's lying again, and she'll be left betrayed, again. But she's still here, listening to his blundering apology. So big is her courage that she can't bring herself to flee, not even now – and it's his salvation and his undoing.

“Forgive me, Brienne. And if you can..." Another deep breath, as if he hadn't already said the most difficult thing. "Allow me to stay, this time."

Her breath hitches, and she thinks he sees her lean forward, an involuntary sway that is quickly reined in again.

"So you're done with her, this time?"

"She's dead."

"But did she die knowing you loved her still?"

"I don't know what she thought of me when she died. But I gave her no reason to believe that I loved her, because I did not. I haven't loved her for a long time, I think."

She looks at him for a moment that feels endless, searching his face for any indication that he's lying. Then she says the most surprising thing.

"I wished it was so. That you left not because you still loved her, but because you felt it your duty to perish with her."

"Perhaps it was. I supported her far too long."

“And so have many others. The weight of her crimes is not on your shoulders alone.”

She sounds painfully earnest in the way only she can, still so convinced that he deserves to be redeemed, and he wonders, not for the first time, how she finds all that forgiveness within her. The world has been cruel to her, _he_ has been cruel to her, and yet here she is, once more absolving him of his sins. The thought makes his throat tighten up painfully.

“In any case, all of that is over now.” His voice sounds strangled, and Brienne watches him once more, gives him time to gather himself.

“So what will you do now?”

He almost has to laugh at the question – is she really not aware that _he_ is not the one who can answer it?

“Well... that really comes down to what you want.”

She looks at him quizzically, apparently struggling to grasp the choice he has put before her.

“I've told your father that I have come to ask for your hand in marriage.”

And, he realizes, he has yet to actually ask.

He sinks to one knee, instantly reminded of the time she did the same, all those months ago in the Great Hall of Winterfell, to receive a different honour, a different proof of his love for her.

"I would ask that you do me the honour of becoming my wife, Ser Brienne."

Her round eyes go even wider this time, in astonishment that he finds rather misplaced – he did tell her he loves her, after all. Why should not a marriage proposal follow those words?

Although perhaps her silence is just due to searching for a way to let him down gently – she would, decent as she is, even if he would not deserve it.

“I can't say there's much to be gained from it – I've inherited the Lannister title, but the Lannister fortune has been thoroughly plundered, and Casterly Rock is all that's left of it, a drafty old rock. And I'm not sure it would do much for your reputation either – Lady Sansa may have let me serve as her sworn sword these past months, but to most people, I am still and always will remain the Kingslayer." So far, he is not making his proposal sound very appealing, Jaime realizes. "But if you say yes, I can promise that I'll honour you and love you until my dying breath, that I'll never walk away unless you order me to, and that I'll never hurt you again the way I did when I left.”

The words so far have come out with surprisingly little resistance, but when there is still no reply from her, Jaime is starting to get nervous after all. But then he remembers that look, earlier, fear fought back with sheer willpower, and he feels ashamed for wishing she'd make up her mind.

She doesn't, not quite - but she also does not decide against him just yet.

"I'd remain a knight?"

"The only way to lose your title is if your King or Queen were to strip it from you. I don't see that happening."

"Yes, but you... You wouldn't want me to stop?"

"Stop? Brienne you'd stop being a knight just as soon as you'd simply stop breathing. Why would I want that?"

"Well, as a wife..."

"As _my_ wife, you'd have to be no different than you always were. You'd be my Ser Brienne, in all your honour-bound, battle-ready glory."

The mistrust on her face recedes by another degree, and Jaime is starting to think that he might actually emerge from this battle victorious.

"What of children?"

"We'll have them if you want to. We'll be careful if you don't."

Another nod, another bit of information stored away to be fed into her decision later.

"Lady Sansa..."

Jaime hides a smile - ever dutiful, his lady knight.

"Lady Sansa said to tell you that she will be happy to greet you the next time you meet as her sworn sword, as the Lady of Evenfall Hall or Casterly Rock or whatever else you choose to be - as long as you are happy with your choice."

Another thoughtful silence, and Jamie's heart sinks again. Is she only stalling, coming up with a pretext to send him away without actually saying no?

But when has she ever shied away from a confrontation? Not nearly as often as he has.

"I realise a marriage takes trust. And Iwould understand if you could not find that kind of trust inside yourself anymore. I can understand if you'd need some time to make up your mind. But as the woman of honour I know you to be, I must ask you one thing: That, if you were already set on rejecting my proposal, you would tell me forthright. "

Brienne draws in a sharp breath, looks away briefly and then back to him.

"I'm not set yet. I am..." He holds his breath, expecting all manner of terrible things to come out of her mouth. Instead, the end of the sentence is short and simple: "Thinking. I need to think."

"And you shall have all the time in the world to do so," he says, soft, and gets up from his kneeling position, his joints already starting to ache. His eyes fall on the set of practice blades, one an approximation of Oathkeeper, the other, shorter and thicker, to be used for dual wielding.

With a smile, he picks them both up and holds the wooden Oathkeeper out to her.

"So what do you say we stop talking and simply spar for a while?"

"You want to spar? _Now_?"

"Why not? There's no better way to clear the mind. Besides, I've been cooped up on a ship for days. I could use the exercise." Then, with a wink, an addition he can't quite resist. "Get my juices flowing."

Brienne blushes, less furiously perhaps than she would have in her maiden days but still a glorious shade, and in her eyes, she sees his words awakened the same memories he is now flooded with: Long nights in Winterfell, hungry lips and greedy hands and her sighs and moans, surprisingly maidenly one moment and then rough and hoarse the next.

Then her eyes flash with irritation (Jaime stifles a grin at the sight) and she yanks the wooden sword out of his hand, falling into her fighting stance with easy grace.

She waits for him to do the same before she lands her first blow, but barely.

Then they're off, slashing and blocking, twirling and ducking across the terrace. He's still a little clumsy, no real contest for her anymore, but he suddenly feels transported back to the day they fought like this in the Riverlands - with sharp blades but an undercurrent of the same playfulness even though they had been on opposite sides of a war. Sparring with her then had been pure joy, and it's the same now - a reminder that they're still alive, both of them against the odds.

He's well used to fighting with his left by now, not near as good as he used to be of course but good enough to _almost_ keep up with her. She deliberately doesn't play her hand entirely, holding back just long enough to make him think that maybe he can beat her this round before she easily disarms him, or knocks him into the dust.

He hopes it is as cathartic for her as it is for him.

The afternoon passes in this way, the dull thud of their practice swords, the grunts and low swears when one of them gains an advantage the only sounds passing between them. Neither of them pays attention to the sun's descent, the lengthening shadows and the breeze coming in from the ocean.

They could not be more caught up in each other if they were making love, and Jaime not happier.

Wondering if she feels the same way distracts him into yet another defeat, and that is how a servant boy finds them when he sets foot on the terrace: Jaime on his knees before her, and the tip of Brienne's wooden sword at his jugular.

"Mylady... Your father..."

The boy stammers, apparently still not sure what to make of the sight before him, and Jaime takes pity on him and gets to his feet to lend the scene at least a modicum of normality.

"Your father sent me to ask," another pause, a violent flush almost more magnificent than Brienne's, "he says to ask if you've accepted the proposal yet. The cook needs to know if Ser Jaime will be staying for dinner."

Now Brienne blushes too, as Jaime knew she would, and he can confirm that her blush is in fact still more magnificent than the boy's. The situation would be funny, Jaime wagers, if it wasn't so dire: Her next words might well decide his future happiness.

"Tell my father Ser Jaime is staying."

The boy nods and turns to walk back towards the castle to deliver his message - but not without a curious glance back at Jaime.

His own look at Brienne can only be more curious.

"I'm staying?", he asks, tentative; trying not to let his hopes run away with him.

Brienne's answer is anything but tentative.

"Ill be your wife, under the conditions outlined before."

Again that matter-of-fact tone, that detached view of something so intimate. Its so very _Brienne_ he feels it almost painfully; remembers countless other similar instances. _"You seem quite jealous" -_ a factual observation. _"What are you doing"_ \- a question that should seem superfluous, given that they were alone in her room, more than a little drunk, and he was reaching out to take off her clothes. Brienne seems to be only dealing in things as they are, facts at face value. But at the same time, she's a romantic at heart, a girl who used to dream of being a noble knight and a woman not averse to sensual pleasure.

He likes the contrast, normally, a puzzle he never tires of turning over in his mind - but right now, he'd much prefer passion over facts.

"You'll agree to a _contract,_ then."

A confused glance out of the corner of her eye.

"It _is_ a contract."

"Aye, it is." He turns and moves closer towards her, reaching out to tuck one sweat-dampened curl behind her ear and then letting his hand linger, thumb running down her cheek to brush over her jaw and come to rest on her neck, positioned so that he can feel the pulse beating under her warm skin. It beats fast, and is speeding up still. "But I hope it will be more, to us."

She says nothing, but her lips drop open and she sways into him, leans into his touch, and it's all the encouragement he needs.

Kissing her is like sparring with her, natural and easy and full of joy, and he doesn't want to stop, wouldn't be able to stop if Lord Selwyn himself appeared and ordered him to. Not when she's kissing back with all the force of a broken dam, her fingers tangling into his hair and grasping at his shoulder to pull him closer. Not when she hums into his mouth and swipes her tongue along his upper lip in a way that nearly makes his knees buckle.

It's her who stops him, eventually, by drawing back to look at him, breathless and flushed and finally, _finally_ soft again, the way she was that night at the feast at Winterfell, and those few precious nights after.

"We should go inside."

"To bed?", he suggests cheekily, eyebrows waggling, and Brienne blushes and Jaime feels young again all of a sudden; young and stupidly hopeful.

"To dinner with my father."

"And then to bed," he reiterates, because he can tease her again, now that all the apologizing and fearing and hoping is done with.

But if he expected her to be flustered, the way she would have once been, Jaime is surprised.

"Aye," she replies, eyes dancing with mirth, "then to bed."

Jaime stares at her in astonishment for a moment, before he guffaws loudly, absolutely delighted: The Maid of Tarth is a maid no more, and it shows.

They've all changed.

With a laugh that feels freer than he could have possibly imagined, he pulls her in for another kiss, _just one_ , before they have to go in and act like civilised people once more.

One kiss turns into many, and they nearly miss dinner.

Lord Selwyn does not point it out.

 _Tarth_ , Jaime thinks later, looking in wonder at their joined hands as Brienne leads him to her chambers. _Not a bad place to grow old at all._

 


End file.
